


Stripped Bare

by Mikey (mikes_grrl)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, Blind Character, Bottom Phil Coulson, First Time, M/M, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-11-02
Packaged: 2017-12-20 08:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 17,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/884976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mikes_grrl/pseuds/Mikey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint never planned on being a stripper, but then he never planned on being blind either.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The first time, it was on a dare. Like most of his life, Clint thought in retrospect: someone told him he couldn't do something, so he broke every rule in the book to prove that he could. 

He was at Stark's Bar, his favorite hangout, sitting at his favorite spot at the bar. His favorite bartender, the husky-voiced femme-dyke name Pepper, served him his favorite drink and then left him the fuck alone, just the way he liked it. The only drawback was that on Thursday nights the place became more of a dance-party kind of club, with an actual DJ and go-go boys undulating suggestively on the small platforms scattered around the place. 

Clint didn't know if they were any good because he couldn't see them, but he had enough experience in gay bars like Stark's to know they probably weren't. If the catcalls they usually got were any indication, he was right. But Clint was 90% blind, so he was mostly annoyed at the louder music and the bigger crowd. The regulars knew him and knew not to jostle him, but with strangers around Clint had to hold back on his instincts to break the hand of anyone touching him. He sat facing forward, nursing his drink and probably looking angry behind his sunglasses, not that he would know, but he had a good idea. 

"You suck!" Some moron who was louder than anyone else yelled. From the direction Clint figured the guy was insulting one of the go-go boys. 

"Asshole," Pepper muttered. 

"You need better bouncers," Clint offered. 

Pepper laughed in agreement.

The go-go boy snapped back something insulting and the guy kept yelling. Clint tuned them out until the guy shouted "I bet the damn blind guy could dance better than that!" 

The place came to a crashing halt, despite the music continuing to blare. But Clint could _hear_ the way people stopped moving and talking, and he knew without a doubt they were staring at him. Feeling _sorry_ for him. 

"Hey! Don't pick on him, he can't help it!" The go-go boy's voice was shrill and affronted. 

Clint stood up.

"Barton, sit down. I'll make you another drink," Pepper soothed. 

"Don't worry, Pep, I'm not starting a fight." Clint slammed the rest of his drink and turned around. "That a bet?" He yelled towards where the heckler was standing.

"No, man, forget it. I didn't mean it."

"What, you got no balls? Not going to stand behind what you say?" Clint walked towards the dance station. He had been getting drunk at that bar for over a year, so he knew the layout better than most of the employees. If no one got in his way, he could walk exactly where he wanted to be.

"The kid can't dance, is all. I stand by that," the asshole said defensively as Clint got near him. 

"Sounds like you're chicken shit to me, man. You said I could dance better than the kid, but you're not willing to bet on it."

"Hey!" The go-go boy chirped up, giving away his exact location. Clint reached up and grabbed his knee. 

"Get down," Clint said as he pulled. The kid could either get down or end up with a dislocated knee, so with a slight screech he scrambled off the platform.

"Seriously, man, you're crazy if you think I'm going to let a blind guy get up on that platform and dance." The guy had lowered his voice. Clint could tell that most of the crowd had gone back to dancing or boozing. He wasn't even sure why he was pushing the whole thing, other than being pissed off. He was blind, not incompetent, and just drunk enough to be angry about it. 

"Coward," Clint spat. "You think it was funny? You hurt that kid's feelings and you make me look like some helpless invalid. No, you're taking this bet. You said the blind guy could dance better, well, how about we test that?"

"Ohmygodno!" The go-go boy gasped and tugged at Clint's shirt. "No! Doesn't matter, he's an ass, just forget about it! I don't want you to get hurt!"

"Jesus, you people are pathetic." Clint pushed the kid away. Reaching out, he felt the edge of the platform and launched himself up easily. His shoulder hit a pole, which he hadn't expected but suddenly made everything much easier. It had been twelve years since he had worked a silks act in the circus, but it wasn't too different, and he was still in shape. "Hold these," he said, tossing his sunglasses down at the go-go boy, pleased when he heard the kid catch them. He still had his aim, too, and with that comforting thought Clint closed his eyes, wrapped a leg around the pole and got to work.

By the time the bar closed, Clint was down to his underwear and had made nearly $200 in tips, which was more than he got in a week from his VA Disability Compensation. 

It started as a dare, and turned into a job.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short chapter, but more soon. <3

Phil closed his eyes and groaned softly after he saw the advertisement for Stark's Bar that Fury was pointing at. "No, boss."

"This guy Captain America has a huge following, and I want him on my stage," Fury said, tossing the local gay newsmagazine at Phil, who didn't even look at it because he already knew it backwards and forwards. As the assistant manager of the huge and hugely popular night club The SHIELD, part of Phil's job was to keep tabs on the competition. Nothing revealed the status of a bar's bad financial outlook better than how desperate they sounded in their ads. 

SHIELD's ads were always low-key and classy because Phil ran a tight ship and Fury knew how to keep it on course. Phil was, actually, part owner, although only of a small percentage. Enough to keep him tied to the place come hell or high water, which he knew had been Fury's plan all along. Ever since they had retired out of the Army at pretty much the same time, Fury had been shepherding Phil like a worried older brother. It was endearing and also damn frustrating, but Phil appreciated having something greater to devote himself to than his cat. 

"Gay night is one of our most lucrative nights, boss. We don't need new blood." Phil rolled up the magazine. "What's this really about?"

Fury glared at him with his good eye, then leaned back in his chair with as much resignation as he ever showed, which wasn't much. "Apparently he's good friends with the Black Widow."

Phil groaned loudly. "Not this again."

"She's the best burlesque performer on the East coast, if not the whole damn country, and I want her on the main stage."

"And she's already said 'no' three times. You ask one more time and it's borderline creepy." Phil crossed his arms. 

Fury crossed his arms in reply.

"No." 

Fury continued staring at him. "I'm trying to put together the best damn team of performers any club has ever seen. I've got Thor and Banner and Danvers, but I need Romanov."

"I'm still not sure why Banner is even involved, he's a liability."

"Because his stand-up act is spectacular."

"He gets on stage and mumbles for the first half, then screams in rage for the second."

"And people think it's hysterical social commentary, and they throw money at it. His youtube vid hits are in the tens of thousands. Are you _questioning_ my decisions?"

"No boss, never. Why would I do that?" 

Fury glared at him then got up and walked out of the office. Phil had lost that round, but that didn't mean he actually had to put much effort into trying to score Captain America. Word was the guy was loyal as hell to the dive bar he worked at, and while the photos of him that Phil had seen showed one amazingly good looking kid, it wasn't as if hot bodies weren't a dime a dozen in that town. Phil had been to Stark's Bar before, and consigned himself to spending a very long night being very, very bored at a very lame 'club' with very unprofessional talent just so he could tell Fury that he tried without lying about it.

Sometimes, his job sucked.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> mmmm, I probably enjoyed writing this chapter a little to much. ;)

Tony Stark had inherited and then destroyed his father's legacy of sound business decisions. The Stark's had once owned the liquor distribution for the entire North East region of the country, until Tony tried to drink the inventory dry after his father's death. His father's partner Obadiah Stane staged a takeover bid and the resulting legal cat fight ruined whatever was left of the business. Tony had managed to keep his trust fund, and with that and a few months in and out of various rehab clinics he started over with Stark's Bar. It was small but successful, and within a couple of years Tony bought a bigger venue down the block and started producing dance parties, inviting internationally renowned DJs whom Tony knew personally from his previous, jet-setting, party-boy ways to come and spin. But whatever else he put his mind to, he didn't seem inclined to mess with the dive bar that started him back on the road to prosperity. 

Phil had been there several times over the years, always on business. Despite some overlap, neither Stark's Bar nor the Malibu Nightclub was actually competition for SHIELD. For one thing, the town was big enough to support both enterprises with spare left over for smaller, less well run clubs and bars; for another, Tony and Fury didn't get along but they respected each other enough not to duke it out. They were the behemoth gorillas of the city and they knew that competing head-to-head was a quick way to guarantee mutually assured destruction. 

The long tall blond called Captain America, though, was looking to be the wedge that would drive them to war. More accurately, it was the Black Widow. Fury was not used to people saying no to him and he was taking it personally. But Phil had heard through the grapevine that the team at Stark's Bar was tight knit and if Captain America left, chances were good that the Widow would follow. That was a very big "if," especially if the rumors Sitwell passed along about Rogers and Stark dating, or at least flirting, were true. Stark held on to what he thought belonged to him, ruthlessly. Phil still smarted from the verbal smack down he got from Stark when he tried to steal his bar manager, Pepper Potts, out from under him. Not that Phil would _ever_ let Stark know that. 

He showed up at the bar early. He was going to have to trap Rogers into talking to him, before or after, although Phil was selfishly hoping it might happen "after" so he could catch the show. He was only human, and really wanted to see what Rogers could do with those long, long legs. 

Pepper eyed him suspiciously as he walked up and settled at the bar. "Phil."

"Pepper. How's business?"

"Too good to warrant a visit from you," she said, putting his drink down in front of him. She never forgot a drink, and had started pouring his whiskey sour as soon as she had seen him. Phil was yet again driven to regret at not being able to woo her away from Stark's. 

He opened his mouth to answer when his attention was grabbed by a blind man making his way to the bar. He carried a white cane but he wasn't using it, walking precisely between the tables and chairs with the cane tucked jauntily under one arm. His sunglasses were dark and slightly oversized, and looked good on him despite being out of place in the dim club. What really struck Phil was that the man was built: compact and tight, muscled from top to bottom like a soccer player or a middleweight boxer. He had the attitude as well, a slightly belligerent expression and a defensive posture that screamed "fuck off and leave me alone." Phil was glad to oblige and turned back to Pepper. 

She was fixing another drink and ignoring Phil. As the blind guy settled down a couple of seats over, she pushed the beer at him. "One."

He frowned in her general direction. "Two."

"Orders, Clint. One. You remember what happened last month."

"That had nothing to do with beer and everything to do with jerkwads spilling their drinks." 

"One." 

"I can still take you in a fight, woman!" Clint grinned at her, looking a bit crazy with the glasses hiding half his face. It was oddly adorable and Phil choked on a laugh. Catching the sound, Clint jerked his chin towards him. "Who's your friend, Pep?"

"Phil Coulson, from SHIELD. Phil, meet resident smart ass, Clint Barton."

Clint held out his right hand, holding it randomly in front of him and waiting for Phil to pick up the slack. Phil leaned over and grabbed it, giving a firm, friendly shake. "I thought the resident smart ass was Tony."

Clint shook his head. "He likes to think so. He's smarter but I beat him in charm, wit, and sex appeal."

Phil wasn't going to argue that last point, so nodded in reply before remembering that Clint couldn't see him. "If you say so," he offered instead. He took a moment to give Clint another subtle look over (justifying it to himself with the slightly creepy thought that Clint wouldn't notice). His first impression that Clint was all muscles was right, but he revised it on closer inspection because of Clint's carriage and the way he moved. There was grace there, and it was strangely at odds with what Phil would have sworn was a military bearing. He was handsome without that sheen of "pretty" that so many gay men tried for. Clint was comfortable in his masculine, rough-hewn looks. 

In short, the guy hit every single one of Phil's buttons. Phil took a sip of his drink and looked up to see Pepper smirking at him. He gave her a bland glare and she just shrugged. 

"SHIELD's that big club southside, right?" Clint asked, taking a swig of his beer.

"Yes. Most popular club in the city."

"As long as you don't count the Malibu," Pepper said with a feral grin. 

"And we don't." Phil raised his tumbler at her in salute. 

Clint settled against the bar, angled towards Phil, one solid, muscled leg stretched out, braced against the floor. His jeans really did not hide much and Phil was having a hard time pretending he didn't notice. 

"So, what, you're slumming?"

"Yes."

"Ouch," Clint laughed. "You letting that slide, Pepper?"

She sighed heavily. "He's here to talk to Steve, I think. Fury hasn't had any luck stealing Natasha so he's trying the next best thing."

Phil frowned at her all-too-accurate assessment, and wondered if there was a mole at SHIELD, although he knew Pepper really was smart enough to figure it out on her own. Fury wasn't being too quiet about his intentions. 

Clint whistled. "Wow. Way to aim high, there, Phil. Good luck with that."

"Thank you," Phil answered, trying for his driest tone. Clint tipped his head back and laughed loudly, his throat working with the sound and Phil had to look away. Pepper's expression switched from smirking to surprise. Phil ignored her too. 

"You know Steve's not going to drop Tony, not for all the money you offer him. He's high minded. He's got ideals. He's fucking loyal."

"There's no such thing in this business." Phil turned the tumbler in his hands. 

Clint paused, seeming to consider the words. "Yeah there is. Just maybe not for you." Clint's entire body closed off, turning towards the bar and his beer, and Phil got the distinct impression that he had just been dismissed. 

"Phil's a good guy, Clint. Don't be an ass." Pepper slapped at him with a dishtowel. Phil watched in shock as Clint's hand struck out and grabbed the towel with unerring accuracy, yanking it out of Pepper's hands.

"He's here to buy _Steve_ , Pepper."

"Steve's a big boy, I think he can fight Phil off." Pepper rolled her eyes.

"I'm just under orders. Fury wants the Black Widow for his new initiative, that's all." Phil sighed into his drink. "If I don't at least talk to Rogers then Fury will put me on closing mop up for a week." 

Pepper and Phil shuddered in tandem. Clint was ignoring them. Phil almost convinced himself that he wasn't disappointed by that. 

Since Clint seemed more interested in his beer for the time being and Pepper had other customers, Phil took the hint and wandered over to a table. Tony had renovated the interior a year ago when the club night started picking up steam and both Captain America and the Black Widow joined the roster of dancers. Before that the dancers had mostly been go-go twinks with bad rhythm gyrating on dance platforms scattered around the place. A couple of those platforms were still in place but the main action happened on a new, small center stage. It boasted a shiny, professional pole going floor to ceiling, and Phil could tell that its anchors were reinforced. It was a serious piece of equipment meant for hard use. He knew that wasn't for the Black Widow's sake. She was 130 lbs maybe, and her act rarely included a pole other than as a prop, even if Phil was certain she could spin with the best of them. The pole was meant for sterner stuff, and that probably meant Captain America. Phil ordered another drink from the baby-dyke waitress Pepper sent over and settled in with a sense of expectation. 

Over the next hour the club filled up but Phil had made sure to get a table on the low rise where he'd have a good view of the stage. The DJ/announcer warmed up the crowd with some dance favorites before calling on the opening act, who was apparently a crowd favorite if the reaction was any indication.

"Welcome Hawkeye to the stage, boys and girls! And get your bills ready, you know he can smell money!" The announcer roared as the crowd broke up with laughter. Phil made a mental note, because if he couldn't get Rogers or Romanov, he might at least grab some up and coming new act. 

His attention was caught by Clint walking towards the stage, his cane out in front of him and making ridiculously wide sweeps to clear the crowd, who parted like butter. He stumbled and Phil frowned, because Clint was clearly putting on an act with his buffoonish wobbling about. He fumbled, his arms out, and acted like he got turned around. Phil glanced over at Pepper, who was ignoring the whole thing as if it was something Clint did all the time. Phil hoped that whoever Hawkeye was, he wouldn't give Clint shit for interrupting his act.

With a few backwards steps and a confused look on his face, Clint crashed into the stage. Phil jumped up, hating humanity while everyone started _laughing at the blind guy_ , but then Clint…rolled. Easily finding his feet, he threw the cane like a javelin to the back of the room as the crowd started yelling even louder. The cane landed in an empty planter with such precision that Phil doubted Clint's disability. He looked back to the stage to see Clint changing his sunglasses out for a sleeker wrap-around pair that fit almost like goggles, with an adjustable band. He flicked his other pair through the air and Pepper caught them with a smile. 

"She caught 'em, right?" He yelled the question, and the crowd went crazy. 

Phil sat down in his chair slowly as understanding finally dawned. 

Clint nodded towards the DJ and music pumped out of the speakers. Grabbing the pole, Clint started dancing. 

Phil thought with shock that the word "dancing" did not do justice to what Clint was doing to that pole. It reminded him more of the complex, artistic performances of Cirque de Soleil: Clint walked up invisible steps as his amazing arms pulled him up the pole before he turned over and slid down, then twisted to kick his legs out and somehow flipped in mid-air, landing upside down again with his back to the pole. Holding the handstand, Clint curled his ankles around the pole and undulated his body slowly, every muscle moving in waves before he grabbed the pole with one arm and lowered to the floor.

Clint was still in his jeans and casual button down shirt, but as he pulled himself up off the floor he started unbuttoning. Phil's hard on got painful. Clint had on a sleeveless tank top under the shirt he was peeling off his body as he easily stood on one leg, the other wrapping around the pole again. As soon as the shirt was tossed to someone who was clearly an adoring fan, Clint started up with the circus acrobatics again. His arms were works of art, thick and meaty but not overbuilt, incredibly strong and flexible as he caught himself a half-dozen times in mid-air somersaults on and off the pole. The pole's reinforcements made a lot more sense, because Clint was hitting it like a gymnast even as he kept stripping down like a man born to be naked. 

He pulled the tank off quickly while dangling from the top of the pole, whipping it like a lasso before letting it fall into the crowd which had not stopped cheering since he started. Phil could barely hear the music over the noise, and wondered why Clint wasn't a headliner. Phil couldn't imagine Captain America outdoing Hawkeye. He tried to surreptitiously press his palm to his dick under the table, willing it down, but then Clint planted his feet wide apart, leaning so only the top of his back rested against the pole, then flicked the buttons on his fly one by one. His face was tipped up just a little, and that with the sunglasses reminded Phil that the guy who was stripping down for 200 of his closest friends was completely blind. There was a slight sheen of sweat on him by then, and he was breathing heavily. Phil knew the business, knew that Clint was using the slow slide of his hands over his hips to distract his audience while he caught his breath for a few seconds…but Phil didn't care, watching greedily. 

Thought flew out of his brain when Clint rolled to face the pole, edging his jeans down inch by inch as he dry-humped with slow, languid rolls of his hips. The crowd was literally going insane and so was Phil, staring at the firm, rounded cheeks of Clint's ass and his thick, hard thigh muscles as they flexed, pure fucking in motion.

Finally down to a pair of bright purple and satiny low-rise hip-briefs, bright with the shine of sweat and flushed with exertion, Clint went into his big finale. He grabbed the pole and made love to it as he twisted around and over it, keep himself low to the bottom, rubbing every part of his body against it. Phil thought he was going to come in his pants if Clint kept at that too long, but finally Clint pulled himself up to the top and then glided down in an easy spiral, setting his legs spread wide at the bottom, leaning back on his hands, sucking in air as sweat poured off him in rivulets. The metaphor of the pole resting up against his balls was lost on exactly no one as the audience started howling and wolf-whistling. 

After a few seconds, Clint started the typical stage crawl around the edge so people could put money into his pants. He scooped up whatever people had thrown on stage as he went, and it did seem like he already knew where the money was. He slapped hands away that were too touchy feely but he smiled the whole time, and no one got mad. With another backwards shoulder roll, he stood up against the pole and raised his fists full of cash in the air, presenting his body like a work of art to his audience. It was possible his chest was waxed but there was a fine treasure trail that snuck down his six-pack belly into his briefs and Phil tried not to think about following it with his tongue. 

The lights went out. 

Phil panicked for a moment, but the laughter of people around him suggested it was part of the act. When the lights came back on, Clint was nowhere to be seen. It made sense, because he didn't need lights to get around, but Phil was still disappointed. He sat with one hand pushing down on his dick and his other clinched around his tumbler, knowing he was covered in sweat just from watching. It had been a long time since a dancer got to him that badly.


	4. Chapter 4

After the performance by "Hawkeye," Phil was still trying to pull himself together, and push his erection down, when Tony slipped into the seat across from him. 

"A real surprise, huh?" 

"Jesus almighty," Phil said before snapping his mouth shut.

"He's an amateur if you can buy that. I don't. But he's a disabled vet, so we don't ask questions." Tony sipped at his bottle of Coke. "He doesn't want the spotlight, enjoys being the warm up. Refuses to let me put his name on the roster, does one routine and that's it. Takes his stage money and whatever I can get away with paying him under the table and then sits at the bar, getting drunk. Never even goes home with anyone, and, _well._ " Tony flipped a hand around, indicating the meat market around them. "People tip him twenties."

Phil clinched his jaw. "And you're telling me this because?"

Tony's eyes narrowed and he leaned back casually in the chair. "You can't have him."

"Pepper let you know I was here?"

"That's her job, Coulson. You know Maria 'Coldhearted Bitch' Hill would call you if I showed up at SHIELD." Tony looked around, feigning boredom. "I told you all of that to let you know what won't work on him: money and sex. He's getting plenty of cold hard cash every week and isn't interested in fucking. So good luck."

"He's good, but I'm not here for him." Phil tried to relax as he took a drink.

Tony smirked. "You sure about that?"

"As I said, he's good. It's a great act and he has a fantastic body. I'm not interested, but I'm not dead either."

Tony just "hmmm'd" at him.

"I'm here to talk to Rogers."

A dark looked passed over Tony's face, and Phil suspected that Sitwell's gossip was on the money: Tony was invested in Captain America in a way that was far from professional. "Fury's an asshole."

"That is an entirely different conversation. I'm just here to talk business with the talent."

"You think by stealing Steve out from under me, the Widow will follow? I don't think you know this team."

Phil rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Honestly, Tony, I don't think anything of the kind. This is Fury's idea, and I'm his errand boy. I have absolutely no illusions of how successful I'm going to be, but I go where Fury tells me."

Tony was looking at him as if seeing him for the first time. He took another swig from his bottle of Coke then set it on the table. "You want a job?"

"I've got a job."

"Can't talk you over?" Tony just kept looking at him with the same terrifyingly blank expression.

"You know you can't."

Tony nodded. "Loyalty counts."

"Not in—" Phil stopped, remembering his short show-down with Clint earlier. "I suppose it does. Sometimes."

"Fury's not going to give up, is he?"

Phil shook his head. "He's tired of the club scene; it never changes. He wants to move into managing talent, and producing shows. He's got an idea about bringing back burlesque and vaudeville as modern theater. It's an old fashioned notion, but." Phil shrugged. He actually liked the idea, but it would all rest on the talent, and what Fury had in hand was not going to make a show. 

Tony gave him another long, thoughtful look. "You know why you're not breaking up my team?"

"Does the answer have anything to do with you being an asshole?"

Tony grinned. "No." He took a long pull on his Coke before answering. "Clint."

"Hawkeye? You don't even have him billed."

Tony shrugged. "He took over club night, I don't even know how. Suddenly there's this blind veteran pole dancing on one of the platforms, the biggest insurance liability risk in the damn state, making money hand over fist and pulling in crowds. Pepper bullied me into putting in the main stage."

Phil shrugged back at him. It was a common enough story, for a night club. Tony shook his head. "I had a stage, but no talent. And I mean _talent_ , not coked-up twinks doing Lady GaGa impersonations. But Barton knew Romanoff, probably they were both pirates on the high seas, I don't ask. He called her up and next thing I know I'm headlining the infamous Black Widow whom no one has even seen in years. She brings this blond kid, just out of the military, claims she found him 'in the ice' whatever the hell that means—and…well, you'll see. Anyway, here I am: a blind stripper, a burlesque star who doesn't strip, and an Adonis who thinks stripping is something you do to guns. It doesn't matter who is on the bill, they all work that stage together."

Phil nodded in understanding. "They're loyal to each other. Matched set."

"On top of that, they are loyal to _me_. Or Pepper. I'm not sure which." They both turned to look at where Pepper was lording the bar, tall and majestic and completely unforgiving. Tony sighed longingly. "If only I were a woman."

Phil nodded in understanding, having had the thought himself once or twice, before turning back to his drink. "Thanks for clearing that up for me."

Tony stood up with a salute of his Coke bottle. "Enjoy the show." 

Phil nodded at his departing backside. He actually liked Tony, but dealing with the man always left him with a headache. It was Tony's gift to have that effect on most people he knew. 

Almost immediately the lights went down again as some flunky dragged a fancy upholstered chair onto the stage. The Black Widow was next. 

Her set went on for a while, at least as long as Clint's, and despite (or because of) the predominantly gay male audience, her modern, peek-a-boo burlesque routine was well received. She looked like a starlet out of Lohman's Moulin Rouge, dripping satin and velvet and rhinestones as she did a mostly acrobatic routine that (as Phil had guessed) barely used the pole. Phil assumed most of her tips were for her flexibility and her costuming, not her sex appeal, but she worked the crowd with an enticing smile that brought in a good wad of money. Phil had seen her act before a few years prior, before she fell off the radar, and knew just how perfect she was on stage. She was a great performer and there was no mystery as to why Fury wanted her on his team.

The Captain America set was different from anything Phil had come to expect from male strippers. Dressed head to toe in a ridiculous red, white and blue outfit, Rogers marched out on stage to a patriotic overture, then proceeded through a series of poses as if he were in a body building contest. The only difference was that he stripped slowly, piece by piece, in between poses. He didn't dance or try for acrobatics; he just gracefully exposed his absolutely perfect physique bit by small bit before striking a pose. His slow, purposefully but innocently erotic reveal revved up the crowd more than any amount of gyrating hips might have. It was clear to Phil that Romanov had a hand in Rogers' act, because it was all about the tease. It was the most masculine, hard-muscled burlesque performance Phil had ever seen. People were actually taking pictures. Phil shook his head. Clint had worked up his libido and Rogers' was not calming it down. The thing about Rogers was that he was so perfect, he seemed unattainable. He did not interact too much with the audience, only smiling at them occasionally as he worked through his routine. He was not shy but he kept a certain distance, unlike Clint who all but threw himself into the crowd to get a reaction.

Phil had a preference, but he was not immune to the charms of Captain America, especially when his last pose was standing in a red, white and blue thong with his legs and arms spread out, his glorious back to the audience so they could fully appreciate the gift from God that was Rogers' ass. 

Phil slammed his drink. He understood what Fury was going for, but Phil knew that there was no way he was going to pull those acts from Stark's Bar. 

After the performances, Rogers and Romanov and Clint all hung out together at the bar, talking to Pepper and to each other. Tony showed up again and tried to act territorial, but Rogers wrapped a large arm around his neck and pulled him into a rough hug, laughing. 

They looked like a family. Romanov leaned up against Clint and whispered things to him that made him laugh while Tony blustered on about something or another. Phil watched, nursing his drink and sometimes making eye contact with Pepper, although she never motioned him over. He didn't really expect her to.

Phil walked out without even trying to talk to Rogers, much less the Black Widow herself. He knew where he wasn't wanted…but mostly when he was thinking that, it was Clint he had in mind.


	5. Chapter 5

Clint was not relaxing, and that pissed him off, which annoyed Pepper. She finally gave up on him and let the baby-dyke named Kate take over serving him drinks. Kate was bitchy and took no shit from Clint, which he actually found a bit of a relief. Pepper was too polite, sometimes.

"What crawled up your ass and died?" Kate said, plopping his drink down in front of him. 

"The beer." He grimaced. 

"God forbid I serve you expensive microbrew." 

He knew she was rolling her eyes as she spoke. He held up the glass. "You didn't."

"Hell no I didn't, you're too cheap."

Clint laughed despite his mood. He could hear Natasha working on her routine onstage, practicing with her usual fanatic perfectionism, snapping at Stark's lone and sadly-used stage hand/sound tech. Kate left him alone to finish cutting fruit for the imminent after-dinner rush of drinkers, so Clint sat and nursed his beer. He had cut back on the drinking a lot since he started doing his show at Stark's nearly a year ago, but he did have a reputation to maintain. 

It was odd to him to be a part of a team again, and he hated admitting how much he had missed it. He was a loner by nature, but then so was Natasha and, surprisingly, Steve. They all had their histories and they liked their space. Clint had been a sniper and usually worked alone, except that he never really did. When he went in the field, he had a unit he worked out of and a team who had his back. He sometimes spent days on a perch, waiting for a shot, but there was usually someone checking on him in person or over a comm. In his rush to get away from everyone and everything after his injury, he forgot how much he had come to rely on his military "family." He stopped answering letters and emails and let everyone go, not realizing how being blind and alone would mean crushing loneliness in the long run, rather than the freedom Clint had chased. 

He had that sense of belonging back, a little, at Tony's trashy dive bar. Natasha lived with Clint, renting out the second bedroom he never used for anything. Even Steve had crashed with them for a while before finding a very small studio in the same complex. Tony hired Steve as a bouncer for the rest of the week, so Natasha stopped worrying about how the huge kid was going to feed himself. Clint figured it wouldn’t be too long before Tony shanghaied the guy to live with him anyway. 

So they all had their roles to fill, and Clint did not want that to change.

But the smooth, calm and slightly arrogant voice of Phil Coulson, Nick Fury's war dog, heralded something dangerous on the horizon. Tony had told them all about the real reason he had stopped by to talk to Steve, and they all laughed it off, but Clint's stomach had not unclenched since that night.

I had liked what he heard at first. Coulson's clipped sentences reminded Clint of the military. Then Clint had opened his mouth and ruined things, like he usually did, but he excused himself because Coulson had acted like an ass anyway. As if loyalty didn't count for anything…yeah, Clint couldn't respect that. 

Although he couldn't stop wondering what the guy looked like. 

"Are you thinking about Coulson again?" Natasha pulled up a chair next to him. She sounded a little breathless, but he doubted anyone else would notice a hair out of place on her. She held a lot of pride in looking effortless in everything she did, even if she half-killed herself to do it. 

"Who?"

"Liar." She snickered. 

Clint sighed heavily and finished his beer, knocking it on the bar to signal for another one. 

Natasha leaned into him. "Your entire show was angled to where Pepper told you he was sitting."

"Whatever. You're imagining things again."

"He's your type, you know," she said casually. Clint heard her spin on her chair. "He's about your height, a little more slightly built. Late 40s, receding hairline, cute smile, well cut business suit. The entire dweeby package you like messing up so much."

"Fuck you." Clint shifted uneasily, unhappy with what that description did to him. 

"You wish he would."

Clint folded down, resting his head on his arms against the bar. "Nat." He whined, which was terrible, but she was laying it on thick and he deserved some sympathy. 

She did, at least, pat his back. 

After a moment he straightened up. "It's more that Fury guy. He's trying to steal you away."

"You think he can?" She smiled as she talked. 

Kate slammed a beer down in front of him and he reached for it tentatively, wondering if it was explosive and whether he should be worried. It seemed like a normal beer, though, if kind of malty. 

"I don't know, can he?" Clint put the bottle down again.

"Maybe. I've said no to him before and I don't like the fact he won't respect that, but I do like the idea that Coulson talked to Tony about. Modern burlesque theater. It's got potential. But you know, if we bail, you're coming with us, right?"

Clint shrugged. "That would be awkward for everyone."

"Not for me, and not for Steve. But he's not getting one of us without the other two, and I think Tony's getting ready to put a cock ring and a leash on Steve."

Clint choked on his beer. "Don't say that!"

"You're gay, Clint. You should know all about cock rings at this point."

"Please stop talking."

"And you need to stop worrying."

"Whatever."

Nat was silent for a while, and Clint wondered what she was up to. When she spoke again, it was with a lovingly cruel smirk to her voice. "Pepper says Coulson might be coming back again soon. You should practice a new routine for him. Might work this time."

"I hate you so much right now," Clint snarled, going back to his beer as Nat's deep laughter rang out next to him.


	6. Chapter 6

Phil simply had not planned to go back to Stark's. He told Fury there was no point, and he meant it. When Fury tried to muscle him into trying again, Phil suggested that it was about time for him to use up some of his cumulative vacation time on a long, out of country trip to someplace far away and off the grid. 

Fury caved, although he didn't admit it, and stopped trying to push Phil back to Stark's. Phil suspected that things were not over but he was glad it was all back in Fury's lap where it belonged. 

Then Pepper texted him, asking him to come to the bar on a quiet Wednesday night. While Phil could (eventually) say "no" to Fury on a number of issues, there was no denying Pepper Potts. Phil ended up pulling into the seedy parking lot behind Stark's Bar at around 8 pm that evening. 

Unlike Thursdays, Wednesday was a regular bar night and the place was busy but not hustling. It was mostly business people avoiding their home lives, perpetual drunks, some freelancers pretending to work on their laptops and a few college kids who didn't have early classes the next day. Phil liked it; part of the charm of Stark's (that Phil would never admit aloud) was the variety of customers, who made the place a little more interesting and a lot more classy than the exterior would suggest. For all his money and time, Tony did not seem the least bit interested in repaving the parking lot or repainting the front entrance. Phil suspected it was his way of being sentimental (not that he would ever admit that aloud either).

He was not really surprised to find Clint at the bar talking to Pepper, after what Tony had told him. He settled one seat over while Pepper finished making his drink.

"Phil Coulson, right?" Clint tipped his head. 

"Yes, how did—"

"You walk like a soldier. Army?" Clint took a swig out of the bottle in front of him. 

"Rangers." Phil answered before he could catch himself. In general, he did not like talking about that part of his life because most people tended to get weird about it, not understanding the personal satisfaction that he used to take from brutal missions gone right. 

Pepper looked at him in surprise. "You never mentioned that before."

"You never asked," Phil said sharply, trying to push the conversation away.

"Woooowheee, just a little sensitive, huh, Phil?" Clint grinned. 

Phil was glad the guy was being an asshole, because that made it easier to forget just how damn attractive he was and fire back. "IED?"

Pepper froze mid-drink. Clint nodded slowly in acknowledgement. "Something like that."

"I guess we both have pasts we don't want to talk about."

Clint saluted in his direction with his beer before facing front again. Pepper squinted at Phil in what was either chastisement or pity before setting down his drink and going to the back. 

Phil sat quietly while he waited for Pepper to return, sipping on his drink and ignoring Clint, who was ignoring him. 

"Phil!" Tony announced as he walked out with Pepper. She shadowed him over to the bar. Phil turned around and set one foot on the stool's cross-bar, leaning backwards against the bar.

"So this was your idea." 

"It was so much my idea that Pepper told me not to do it."

"I did," Pepper said, although she stood next to him.

Phil studied them for a moment, and just as Tony opened his mouth, Phil spoke. "I already told you once that I'm not changing teams. I work for Fury."

"And you're one loyal dog, I get that. You two served together, right?" Tony asked, pleased for the chance to show off how much he knew.

Phil noticed Clint tilting his head towards the conversation out of the corner of his eye. "Yes, we did. Not that it's your business."

"It might be my business. Or, our business. I have an offer you cannot refuse." Tony smirked and bounced on his toes.

"No."

"Haven't even heard the proposition yet, so your refusal is invalid."

Phil turned to face Tony directly. "And?"

"I have half the talent Fury needs to make his little dream soar. He has the other half, and a business plan. I have experience putting on professional productions, he has the reputation as a reliable businessman whom people trust."

Phil shook his head. He should have known that Tony would come up with the perfect solution. "No."

"Oh, yes!" Tony smiled broadly. "You know I'm right. So this is where I browbeat you into agreeing to present the idea to Fury by reducing you to tears with my unassailable logic, or you can save yourself the pain and humiliation and just agree." 

Pepper rolled her eyes again, but fondly this time. She left him to walk around the bar again, and gave Phil a fresh drink while he was still thinking. He took a sip then looked at Tony.

"We put them all on the line up together; you handle the production end of the show—props, costumes, music, DJs, lights, crew, promotional material—while Fury and I manage the business end of setting up a tour, merchandise, and handling logistics. Proceeds after payout split 50-50, equal investment, and fair shares of merchandise sales for everyone based on points." Phil knew his voice was flat, but it was a long-standing habit of his to fall back onto military blank-face when presenting a deal. "Is that about right?"

Tony actually looked impressed, which Phil found only slightly insulting. Tony distractedly waved a hand around as if miming a puppet and Pepper slapped a bottle of Coke into it. He stared at his hand in surprise before facing Phil again. "That's pretty much exactly what my legal team drafted out. I can send copies of the contracts to you and Fury for fine tuning as soon as you give the word. 

Phil looked at Tony, and for the rest of his life he could not explain to anyone why he said what he said next. "I think that might be a workable deal, Stark, but only if you throw Hawkeye into the lineup." 

Down the bar, Clint's head tipped towards him again. 

Tony twisted the cap on his bottle of Coke as he glared long and hard at Phil. "Not my call to make. The rest are on payroll, they go where I tell them to; Clint's not. He's a free agent."

Phil leaned back against the counter. "Paying your people under the table? Don't think the IRS will take kindly to that, do you?"

Tony smiled grimly. "Try it. The only bouncer on staff at Malibu is Happy; the rest are as under the table as Barton is. You blow the whistle on me, I'll blow Fury's operation to hell."

"Nobody's blowing anyone." Clint stood up, turning towards Phil. "The reason Stark keeps me off the books is so the VA can't start arguing my disability percentage based on my routine, and slash my check. If you can pay me more than what I get between that and dancing here one night a week, I'm in."

Phil glanced between Tony and Clint. Tony looked like he was trying not to look surprised, while Clint was very obviously waiting to be told to piss off. Phil nodded. "I'll have to go to Fury for the details, but I'm in a position to make a gentleman's agreement." He held out his hand. Tony grabbed it and shook it once, hard, putting his arm into it.


	7. Chapter 7

Clint snarled as he rescued himself with a back flip off the pole. "Damnit!" He kicked it. "This is a piece of shit!"

Clint could almost hear the stage manager, Sitwell, rolled his eyes. "It's the best, sturdiest stand-alone pole on the market. I can't _do_ better, you get that, Barton? Because better doesn't exist! You're the only damn one in the lineup who is using a pole anyway, so just…I don't know, adjust!" Sitwell yelled. The guy had seemed unflappable at first, but Clint had driven him to his last nerve. Clint thought that maybe the guy should at least get an award for holding out as long as he had. They had been in rehearsals all of two weeks, and Clint's routine was so far the most problematic. He actually broke the first pole they tried to use. It had to be portable, if the show was going to tour, but the kind of act Clint did required a piece of equipment built to withstand not just his weight but his torque.

"Yeah, it's the best if you're built like Natasha! There isn't a circus on earth that would travel with this crap." Clint kicked it again. "Phil!" He yelled out to where Phil was hiding, probably assuming that Clint had not heard him sneak into the otherwise empty theater. It was too easy for Clint, sometimes, to let people underestimate him but he was not interested in playing games with the cool-as-ice bar manager just then. The guy had been avoiding Clint generally, despite his habit of sneaking in to watch Clint practice. Clint had wanted to let that go on indefinitely, getting off on knowing that he managed to break the frozen calm of the ex-Ranger. But the problem with the pole outranked Clint's dirty little fantasies, and he was enough of a professional to admit it. 

"Yes?" Phil moved out of the back, towards the stage, after he spoke. 

Clint almost laughed at Sitwell's small gasp of surprise, but there was no time for petty revenge. "I need a better pole." Clint pointed at the offending object. 

Phil sighed. "You heard Sitwell. That is the _best_ pole. And you hate it."

"Then we've got a problem." Clint threw his hands up in the air then plopped down on the floor. "Because I can't do my show on this without breaking something, and by 'something' I mean me." 

Phil walked up and jumped onto the stage. He must have given Sitwell some signal because he stomped off without a word, leaving Clint and Phil alone. 

Phil came over and crouched down next to Clint, who looked over at him. He knew his eyes were disturbing to see, broken and tracking nothing, because an honest nurse had answered his question about it once. She told him that he looked possessed, one eye clouded over and spidery while the other wandered, unmoored. Clint tried to wear glasses all the time after that but it was too much to ask a performer to practice with them on, so he figured Sitwell and Phil could just damn well get over the creepy factor.

Phil, in fact, seemed to have done just that. "What do you want me to do, Clint? The show needs to be portable. This pole is rated for over 500 pounds, and you're not half that."

"Damn it, it's not about weight. It's torque and tension and suspension." Clint sighed and closed his eyes.

"You don't have to close your eyes on my account."

Clint laughed. "Habit. Anyway I know they don't bother you. You're always willing to get in my face, get on my level."

"Is there a reason I shouldn't?"

"Most people think a blind guy doesn't care where you are when you talk to them. They think we don't notice the things they do just because we can't see them. You don't make that assumption." Clint leaned back on his hands. He heard Phil sit down all the way, probably sitting cross-legged. 

"The first time I saw your act, you threw your cane across a crowded dance floor to land in a planter by the front door. Underestimating you seems like it would be a mistake."

Clint snorted. "That's just a parlor trick, Phil. Took me a few tries to nail it, you know. Kate coached."

"Right." Phil paused. "You were a sniper."

Clint tensed up but nodded, because he wasn't _ashamed_ of that. He just didn't like remembering a life he used to love. "Yeah."

"I was special ops. Black ops, actually." Phil smiled while he talked. "Good times."

"Not many people would say that." Clint shook his head, laughing. 

They sat in silence for a little while. Clint rolled down and stretched out his legs, doing some hip flexes to try and spread his pelvis. If he was putting on a little bit of a show for Phil, that wasn't anyone's business. 

Phil cleared his throat before talking, his only tell that Clint was getting to him. "The pole won't work."

Clint sat up and shook his head again. "Nope." He took a deep breath. "Does that mean I'm out of the show?" He was very proud of himself for not sounding too pathetic. 

"You said no circus would travel with this pole. Were you in the circus?"

"Actually, yeah. My older brother and I ran away from the orphanage and joined the circus. It's where I learned…everything, really. How to shoot, how to climb, fall, fight, hide. It was all the circus, the military was just finishing school."

"Trapeze?"

It seemed an odd thing to ask, because most people focused on Clint's missing brother. He shrugged. "Sure. Horseback, trapeze, silks, clown cars, you name—"

"Silks?" 

Clint sat up straight. "Silks."

Phil was smiling again as he talked, his voice almost humming. "Silks." He got up and walked out. Two hours later, a professional crew was installing a set of silk lines from the very strong cross beams over the stage. It was portable to any place that had a roof, it was something Clint could do a damn good show on, and it meant he was still on the team.

He tried not to think of it as Phil's personal gift to him, but it was hard to think of anyone else as Clint slid up and down the lines, building a whole new act based on saying "thank you."


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm truly sorry for the long break in updating. I had a lot of trouble with the following scenes, and it took a good, stern talking to by Tawg, who showed me where my ideas were going wrong, to sort things out. Anyway, thanks for being patient! The story is completely written now, and the final chapter should go up here in another day or so. <3

"Can't stand this shit. I'm a fucking busy man, just tell me if the show—"

"Sit _down_ ," Phil snapped, then as an afterthought, "Sir."

Fury sat down, eyeing Phil maliciously. Phil took the high road and stared at the stage. They were there for the dress rehearsal, without much of a clue as to what they were going to see. Phil had stopped haunting Clint's practice times, since it was obviously impossible to keep up his stalking routine unnoticed, which he figured in the long run was probably healthiest for himself. It did beg the question of why Clint had not called it out earlier than he had, but Phil was determined not to ask that question.

The other routines were just as much of a mystery. Everyone had changed up their usual, added new sections, and come up with multiple routines to rotate through. So, while Phil had actually seen Thor's strange (eerie, really) magic act and Banner's bizarre stand up, he had no idea what to expect in full. Carol Danvers and Steve Rogers had struck up an immediate and terrifying friendship, pretty much taking charge of the whole team and scaring off outsiders who were not stage hands— up to and including Tony Stark. They even designed a joint routine that, rumor had it, was a strip tease tango so hot that people in the audience might self-combust (that was Sitwell's opinion, and he was usually sweating profusely when he said it). Everyone had risen to the challenge of making the show a one-of-a-kind stellar event that would be unlike any regular "variety act" out there. 

Steve was also the "ring master" (as Clint called him) and started the show by coming out in an old-fashioned long-tailed tuxedo and top hat right out of a 1930s movie, looking like a movie star and moving like a dancer. The insane twink Peter Parker started his routine of completely silent, wall-crawling acrobatics while Steve was still talking, and it set up a strange, otherworldly mood. The first act was Thor's, the electricity from his "magical hammer" sparking all over the stage (and Phil made mental note to add a rider to their insurance for the traveling show). Phil was impressed with each performer, but it was mostly a blur until the silks dropped for Clint's act. Phil managed not to scoot forward on his seat like an anxious little kid. 

"Ladies and Gentlemen, let me introduce to you Hawkeye. Take nothing he does for granted, his aim is perfect and his goal is to amaze you. Is he blind, or blindfolded? Is he falling, or flying? Will he give you what you want, or take what you most hold dear? Hold on to your loved ones: the Hawk doesn't have to land to grab what he wants!" Steve announced and left the stage as the lights dialed down low. 

Phil almost laughed when Clint first walked out because he had a bright purple blind fold on, which seemed far more outrageous than even the odd loin-cloth-style outfit. He wore the blindfold casually, walking across the stage and up to the silks with his usual confidence, and somehow that seemed to make Clint's blindness secondary to the performance. It became nothing more than a dramatic note, an almost clichéd trick of the modern performer saying to the audience, "hey, I'm so good I don't need to see what I'm doing!" Which in Clint's case was more than just a brag. Chances were good that people would not believe that Clint was actually blind because of his act, so the blindfold was a brilliant stroke of disruption. People would not know what to expect. 

The music started, a low tapping that Phil recognized instantly as taiko drumming. Clint started casually enough, grabbing one line and hand crawling up it in time to the steadily growing beat. For the next few seconds he performed typical turns and twists as he worked down the line, the second line hanging motionless a few feet away. He did a head-over-heels roll up the line, then leapt from one to the other, swinging out and around as he caught himself in a move that would have broken both legs if he missed and landed on the stage from thirty feet in the air. Phil's hands were clinched on the edge of his chair, and did not let go for the next five minutes as Clint defied gravity and common sense, alternating between free falling, leaping, climbing and flying. His moves were tight and precise, carefully thought out and well-practiced yet flirting on the edge of chance. One slip and he would end up in a broken heap. 

But Phil saw more than just a man performing a dangerous routine. Clint was expressing his freedom, chasing dreams through the air the way he could not on the ground because of his blindness. He was showing the world his true self.

He was beautiful.

He was perfect. 

He was _Hawkeye_.

He landed off a double back flip like a bird coming to roost. Standing up, he bowed, then pulled off the blindfold as he straightened up and looked straight out into the audience with his broken eyes on display. Phil heard Fury take in a deep breath, which was as much a show of complete shock as the man ever would give, and Sitwell cursed behind them. Apparently, that was a late addition to the act. A very effective one, Phil admitted, as Clint turned gracefully and stalked off stage. 

Phil really did not pay any attention to the acts that followed, even the one where Clint (back in his familiar sunglasses) shot arrows at apples held up by Natasha, who was in turn being held up on Steve's shoulders. Phil remained lost in thought, retracing every move that Clint made on the silks, trying to think of a way to compliment the man without coming off like a screaming tween at a boy band concert. He wasn't sure he had enough control to not make fool of himself.

More importantly, he was absolutely sure that he had nothing that Clint needed. Tony had already pointed out that Clint did not chase money and did not seem interested in sex, and with the routine he just put on he would probably not be lacking in marriage proposals or job offers from Cirque de Soleil. Phil was fairly self-confident, and he had wooed and bedded enough men in his life to know what he had to offer, but he was not going to fool himself either. He was a mildly boring administrator with thinning hair and a sense of humor so dry his moniker in the military had been "Cactus." 

Clint was damaged and perfect, a study in contrasts so sharp it could cut. Phil had never seriously considered settling down into a steady relationship, because the twists and turns of his life angled him away from that kind of happily ever after. In that moment, though, as the final curtain dropped and the staff who had come to watch all burst out into manic applause, Phil sat still in his chair, trying to image what it would feel like to have that kind of life with Clint. He wanted nothing more than to be everything Clint wanted, even if it was pretty clear that Clint neither needed nor wanted anybody. Especially not Phil.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the last chapter, but I kept adding to it, then decided to change POV for part of it, so yeah, not so much the last chapter. :/ 
> 
> But close! One more to go from here. Thanks for your patience. ♥

Since the show was not going live for another four days, the dress rehearsal was followed by a private "launch party" at Stark's Bar. The show staff was joined by employees of Stark's, the Malibu, and SHIELD along with their dates and Natasha's purse dog, a Chihuahua named Brutus. The small dive was packed.

Phil had decided to ditch the whole thing, but ended up stuffed in an SUV between Jasper and Maria while Fury drove. His "Plan B" was to hide in a dark corner and drink heavily, but life, the universe and Nick Fury were out to sabotage Phil at every turn. He found himself at the bar, Pepper pouring him a drink, while Fury looked out over the crowd. 

"It's going to be a hit," Phil said, saluting Pepper who tapped his glass with her beer bottle before wandering off. 

"Damn straight. I knew it all along."

"Of course you did, Boss."

"Sassing me? Really? Has it come to that, asshole?" Fury grinned at him. 

"Never." 

Fury turned towards him, the better to talk over the noise of the crowd. "You got a favorite act?"

Phil glared at him. Fury never asked idle questions. "They're all good."

"Especially Hawkeye. Guy's stacked."

"Like you'd notice? The Black Widow is more your speed."

Fury snorted. "That woman would eat me up and spit me out."

"She does have a reputation," Phil nodded.

"So do you."

Phil raised his eyebrows. 

"Yeah. A reputation for being a tight ass who needs to get laid."

Phil coughed and Fury slapped him on the back a few times hard enough to bruise. 

"What'd he do now?" Clint's voice slammed into Phil. He looked up and saw Clint being led through the crowd by Natasha to the bar. He had his cane but it was folded up and he was cradling Brutus in one arm while Natasha cleared the way. Clint grinned in his general direction. "I heard Phil coughing and Fury beating the shit out of him."

Natasha shoved him up against the bar next to Phil, who tried to scoot away respectfully but was blocked by Fury at his side. Fury snorted. "Nothing, just trying to beat some sense into him."

"Good luck," Natasha said, her voice bordering between cryptic and amused. Which, Phil admitted, was her personality in a nutshell. She turned to Clint. "Gimme."

Clint and Natasha traded off the dog and Clint put his cane on the bar. Then suddenly Fury and Natasha were gone, disappearing into the crowd in separate directions. Clint got his beer from Pepper, who gave Phil a very pointed look that he had no idea how to interpret. 

Clint took a swig of his drink. They were both facing the bar, more or less, and tilted towards each other. "What'd you think of the show?"

"You're fucking amazing," Phil blurted before he could stop himself. He stared at his drink, wondering if Pepper had spiked it. 

"Hey, thanks. It took a lot of work." Clint nodded.

"No, I mean, you were _amazing_." Phil put his drink down. He was committed now, and if being a Ranger had taught him one important thing, it was to follow through with what you started. "The act is great. But you…you make it incredible."

Clint paused, his expression shrouded by his sunglasses. "Was that hard for you to admit?"

Phil smiled to himself. "No." He took a sip of his drink. "I've wanted to say it since I first saw you on the pole, here."

Clint's finger rubbed over the mouth of his beer bottled. "But you didn't."

"You thought I was a jerk. Not without reason." Phil took a deep swallow from his own drink. 

"I did?" Clint smirked at him.

"I'm jaded by this profession sometimes. We've got a good team, the _best_ team, and while I feel 'The Avengers' is possibly the worst show name in the history of burlesque, you are all the most professional and talented people I have ever worked with. Let's just say that wasn't always the case."

"Yeah, I heard about Loki."

Phil grimaced at the memory of the charming, friendly showman who had stabbed Phil in the back with his treachery, stolen directly out of Fury's pocket and nearly burned the whole club to the ground. Part of Thor's contract was to pay remuneration back to SHIELD for what his brother had done—not technically legal but he had insisted. 

"Water under the bridge." Phil finished his drink. "But I understand. I made a bad first impression. I'm glad you, ah, gave me a second chance." Phil really hoped that did not sound like a come-on, but then, he also kind of hoped it did. 

"I never hated you. Sure I didn't trust you at first but you proved me wrong. And without you, I wouldn't even be a part of the show. The silks was a stroke of genius."

"You're the one who turned them into a hell of a performance."

"Hey, I'm good for something." Clint saluted him with his beer and a wry grin. He was still a little flushed from his performance, his muscles under his tight tee shirt bulging and rippling as he moved. Despite it all, though, Clint was laid back and easy to talk to. Phil very rarely felt the kind of pull he had towards Clint Barton, and it was more intoxicating than the drink in his hands. 

"Come home with me," Phil said without thinking. 

Clint slowly lowered the bottle to the bar top and stood still.

"Or not." Phil sighed. "I'm sorry, I let myself get carried away. I'll head out." Mentally head slapping himself, Phil pushed off the bar stool but Clint grabbed his arm. 

He leaned close, dropping his voice. "You think I need a pity fuck?"

Phil's brain derailed but he mustered some indignation. "What? No. I'm not that kind of asshole."

Clint didn't let go. "So what was that about? I thought we were having a friendly chat."

"Look, if anyone here needs a pity fuck, it's me. Just ask Fury." Phil rubbed his face but didn't push Clint away. "I wasn't lying, you are amazing. You've been amazing to me since the first night I saw you. I figured you thought I was a jerk so I kept my distance, like the god damn professional I am. You don't have to make this a big embarrassing production about turning me down."

"I'm not turning you down."

"What?" Phil tried to parse each word separately. 

Clint snorted and let go of him, reaching (unerringly) for his beer and finishing it all in one go. "I'm not turning you down. Let's blow this joint."

 _Keys keys keys I need car keys oh shit!_ Phil's brain stumbled around logistics. "Wait, I need…I rode with Nick. Fury. I mean, I rode with Fury, he drove. Just, fuck, give me a second. I'll be right back." 

Clint withdrew. "You're not just being clever about leaving me hanging?" His voice was calm and casual but his body was held tensely, as if waiting to be hit. 

Phil looked at him for a long moment before making up his mind. He stepped in close and grabbed Clint's shoulders, his magnificent shoulders, and kissed him. He put everything his repressed libido could dredge up into the kiss, tilting his head to let Clint have the upper hand. Clint kissed back, firm lips not parting for Phil but moving against his softly. Phil pulled back a little. "I'm too smart to be that stupid."

Clint settled against the bar again. "Yeah, okay. I'll be here."

"Right. One second." Phil looked around and spotted Fury, sitting like a king on a throne at a table with Maria and Jasper. He marched up and stuck his hand out. "Give me your keys and no one gets hurt."

Maria burst out laughing as Nick slowly dragged his car keys out of his pocket without comment, handing them over with a tilt to his head. 

Phil nodded once and then turned back around to bee-line it to the bar, where of all miracles, Clint was still waiting for him. "Keys acquired. Let's go."

"You stole Fury's keys?" Clint laughed as Phil looped his arm through Clint's to lead him through the crowd.

"He owes me several lifetimes of favors."

Clint was quiet for a moment as they navigated their way out. "Why do think you mean that literally?"

Phil shrugged, knowing Clint would sense it through their linked arms. 

"So, your place?" Clint asked when they finally got settled into Fury's SUV. 

"Is that okay?" 

"Mine's a dump I share with Natasha. She's not coming home tonight, she's going to wrestle Barnes to the ground at long fucking last but it's still a dump with thin walls. Unless you enjoy slumming?" Clint stretched out after buckling up, running his hands up and down his thighs with intent. Phil was grateful that he was able to keep steering the car. 

"You think I'm slumming with you?" Phil asked, unsure of why except for a certain tone in Clint's voice. He headed for his place, though, because at home he could pamper Clint. Maybe he'd let Phil give him a bath. He tried not to crash the car at the thought. 

"It's okay, man, I'm used to it. The perks of being from the wrong side of the tracks is that I know how to show you a good time. Don't worry about it." 

Phil had no idea what to say to that, and Clint didn't expect an answer, so they drove in silence for a few minutes. Finally Phil shook his head. "I promised myself I wouldn't hit on you tonight, because I knew you'd be surrounded by beautiful people who would want to sleep with you. I also know that when this show goes on the road you'll get groupies trying to paw at you by the dozen. I have no illusions about that, or myself. I'm not slumming and this isn't a pity fuck, it's me trying to grab at the best thing I've ever laid eyes on, while he's willing to let me. I'm not asking for a love song but don't think for a second that I don't know how fucking lucky I am right now." 

Even behind his shades, Clint looked stunned. "Shit. Phil, I—"

"Shut up and let me drive." Phil clinched his teeth and hit the gas, promising himself that later he would _not_ track down every fucker who had ever made Clint feel cheap or unwanted. Although part of him thought it would be a shame to let all of his special ops training go to waste.


	10. Chapter 10

Clint quickly figured out that Phil had taken him up on his offer to go to Phil's place. He knew the turns and stops to his own apartment from all the times Nat had driven him home from SHIELD after rehearsals, and so he could feel that Phil was taking a different route. He actually didn't mind, which surprised him.

Clint had stopped going home with guys after the first couple of times he got stranded somewhere unfamiliar. It was tough to call a cab when he had no idea where he was. He did not want to invite anyone into his space either, which was the only place he truly felt safe outside of Stark's Bar, so he had committed to a life of celibacy out of practicality. Outside of a few anonymous bathroom blowjobs at Stark's, it had been several long, lonely years with his right hand for company. 

Riding with Phil at the wheel, though, Clint knew he was not going to get stranded. He also knew he was going to get laid, and his body had some very firm opinions about that. _Very_ firm.

What Clint didn't know was what they were doing.

Phil's declaration was so sincere it hurt, and Clint was glad that Phil asked him to shut up because Clint really had nothing to say in reply. A while back, he had told himself that Phil was another dude with a hard-on for the blind guy (some people liked the idea of fucking a person they thought was helpless) or maybe just had a hard-on for bar flies. Even after all the almost-stalking, and the obvious interest Phil had in rescuing Clint's routine from oblivion, Clint had not taken him too seriously even if he was interested. The bold-faced pick up line at the bar had not told him much other than that Phil wanted him enough to ask, but as they rode along in silence Clint was beginning to wonder what was really behind the invitation. 

Much less why he had accepted. Clint had turned away from his emotions a long time ago. He was not sure if he knew how to find them again.

Phil silently gave Clint his arm after he parked the car and they got out. It was a short walk across a parking lot to a sidewalk, and then a step up into an apartment or house. Clint was laying odds on a small condo, but he had very little way of knowing. After a few steps in, Clint tapping his cane for reference as Phil led him along, Phil stopped.

"It's a small place. This is the living room and to the right is a galley kitchen. There is a den to the right off the living room. Bedroom, uh," Phil stalled.

"To the left? Along with the bathroom?" Clint smirked. 

"Yes." Phil sighed. Clint heard him take off his jacket and hang it near the front door. Clint imagined that Phil would be the kind of guy who owned an honest-to-god coatrack, and didn't just throw things to land on the back of the sofa. "Let me have your coat, I'll hang it up." 

Clint shrugged out of his coat and scarf, handing them over. 

"You're good at that," Phil said.

"At taking off my coat?" Clint laughed.

"No, at trajectory. You knew exactly where I was."

"I was a sharp shooter. I have perfect aim; some people have perfect pitch, can hit every note. I hit every target." Clint fondled his cane. "Or, I did. Now I rely on sound and guesswork. People tend to be noisy when they move around."

Phil moved into the living room and Clint followed him. "I hadn't thought of that...oh, I'm wearing corduroy trousers."

Clint snickered. "Yeah, you kind of sound like a stack of paperwork shuffling around. I could follow you on a busy street." 

They both stopped. Clint figured Phil was a few feet away. He wondered what the guy looked like, what the expression on his face was right then, and how he saw Clint. 

"Are you okay?" Phil asked.

"I'm…I just wish I knew what the fuck you look like. That shouldn't matter, but—" Clint stopped. It was more of an opening than he had given to anyone other than Natasha for a while. 

Phil was quiet for a moment, before speaking in soft but curious tone of voice. "I wonder how frustrating it must be for you."

"Some days more than others, but not the way it used to be. I remember, though, how easy it was to just look at someone and know everything about them. I don't…I have no clue what's fucking going on here. Honestly I don't know jack shit about you, other than that Nat said you're my type, and I like your attitude." 

Phil moved closer, telegraphing everything he was doing. "Can I have your hand?"

"We've advanced to hand holding already? Can we tell the chaperone to go home?" Clint laughed, but held out his hand. 

Phil picked it up and placed it on his face. "I guess this is a little corny, right?"

Clint sucked in a deep breath. "No, not really." He gently ran his fingers over Phil's face. Nothing stood out, other than a small scar on his chin. Eyebrows, nose, cheeks — everything was uniformly masculine, and possibly handsome. Phil stood motionless under the touch, almost vibrating as Clint's fingers ghosted over him. On a hunch, Clint pressed his thumb against Phil's mouth and whispered. "Open for me. Open." 

Phil gasped, opening his mouth to let Clint's finger sink in. His thumb was surrounded by soft, wet heat and the sensation made passion pool in his belly. Phil sucked on it, his tongue stroking over Clint's skin. Clint's other hand ghosted over Phil's face, noting that his eyes were closed and his muscles relaxed. Clint gently pulled his thumb free and Phil groaned. Stepping into Phil's personal space, Clint nudged at his face with his nose and his mouth until his lips landed on Phil's. He kissed him, dropping his hands to wrap around Phil's waist and haul him closer. Phil went with it, pliant and willing, his body slumping a little to fit tightly against Clint until they were pressed together like jigsaw pieces. 

"Phil, damn." Clint pulled back for air.

Phil tensed up. "Too much?"

"What? No. Hell no. I just can't believe you want me to drive." Clint ran his hands up and down Phil's arms, soothing him. 

Phil shrugged, using the motion to try and shuffle in closer again. "I can't imagine why I wouldn't."

Clint laughed. "Most people don't trust a blind guy behind the wheel, you know?" 

Phil draped his arms over Clint's shoulders and pulled him into a hug. His mouth was near Clint's ear, his breath hot and moist and loud. "Take me." 

Clint seized up reflexively, tightening his arms around Phil's torso until he thought he might accidentally break a rib, lifting him up just a little so that he was holding almost all of Phil's weight. 

Phil groaned. "Oh fuck, fuck, your _arms_ —" he babbled on with a litany of half-words as Clint held him. After a few breaths Clint loosened his hold, settling them on even footing again. Phil was panting into Clint's ear.

"I haven't topped since before the accident." Clint whispered, the admission embarrassing if only because it showed how badly he had handled the changes in his life. 

Phil rested his forehead on Clint's shoulder, still holding on to Clint like a limpet. "By choice? Or you just don't like to? I can, if you want. I'll do anything. Clint, please, anything, just ask."

"By choice mostly," Clint said, trying not to feel disappointed in himself. He sighed "I want to. I love it, I want to fuck you into the mattress, okay?" 

Phil surged against him. "Yes, yes. Okay."

Clint pulled Phil's arms off his shoulders, ignoring the annoyed grunt he got in response. "For that to happen, we kind of need a mattress. I think we're still in the living room?"

"Damn it." Phil grabbed his wrist and pulled, dragging him along. Clint laughed as he trailed behind Phil toward, he assumed, the bedroom. Phil turned when they went through a door way and led Clint to the bed. "Here. We're at the foot of it, not the side."

"How big is it?" Clint crouched down to feel the top of the mattress, getting a gauge on its height and size.

Phil coughed, which sounded suspiciously like a laugh. "There is no way I can answer that without becoming the butt of a joke."

Clint grinned. "Queen, huh?" He reached out and grabbed Phil's upper arms, using his leverage and the element of surprise to toss Phil onto the bed. The bed creaked as Phil landed and bounced with a loud "oof" noise. Clint paused for a moment—if he could see he would have been checking Phil out, and it was more muscle memory than because he got anything out of it. But he imagined what Phil looked like falling onto the bed after willingly letting himself get tossed around, and no matter what Phil actually looked like, the image in Clint's imagination was hot as hell. He crawled onto the bed, his hands out until he felt Phil's legs. Phil was on his back, his legs spread wide. Clint ran his hands up over Phil's knees and thighs with a heavy touch, pushing Phil into the mattress. Phil let out a breath that was halfway to a groan.

"Fuck, Clint. I like the way you drive." Phil melted under Clint's touch. 

Clint smiled. He still had his sunglasses on and he planned to keep them on, knowing how crazy his expression was otherwise. He pushed down on Phil's hips with both of his hands, then leaned forward to slowly move up over Phil's torso. He moved slowly but didn't linger, his fingers splayed wide to catch every jump of Phil's muscles. Phil felt perfect, muscular and pliant under him. He was easy to undress, lifting his arms and arching up so that Clint could unbutton his shirt and pull it off of him. He was less gentle in getting the undershirt off, yanking it over Phil's head impatiently, willing to rip it if required.

Phil put his hands on the junction between Clint's shoulders and neck. "There's so much I want to do, but we're not in a rush, are we?"

"Maybe a little," Clint grinned down at him. 

Gentle fingers rubbed slowly over his skin. "You have somewhere else to be?" Phil tensed up a little, a small tell that he probably was not even conscious of. 

Clint took a second to breathe in slowly, letting his own hands come to rest on Phil's bare chest. Clint was sitting on his heels between Phil's legs, still fully dressed himself other than his shoes. "No."

"Just eager?" Phil said, but as light as the tone of his voice was, he remained tense. 

"Usually these things are one-offs. You can only get so much action in on one night." 

They were both very still for a while, Clint focusing on the feel of Phil's fingers on his shoulders as they pressed down. "We can do that if you want. If that's your comfort zone. Whatever happens here stays here. Tomorrow is a blank slate." Phil's voice was steady but Clint heard the disappointment.

"I'm a broken wreck, Phil. Hey—" He flinched and closed his eyes as Phil pulled his sunglasses off.

"I told you: you're the best thing I've ever had a chance at." Phil ran his hands down Clint's chest to rest on his hips. "I'll fall in love with you so fast it will make your head spin. But if that's not what you want, then give me tonight the way I want it, not some heated rush to get off."

Clint's heart was in his throat. "And how do you want it?" He knew he sounded wrecked.

"Make love to me, Clint. Take me, fuck me, talk dirty, _hold me_ when I come." 

Clint could feel Phil's heart hammering in his chest under Clint's hands. He fell forward and placed his head between his hands, resting on Phil's sternum, pushing him down. "Yeah. And if I want…if I want the rest of it?"

"Then stay. Don't call a cab and run, stay and sleep in with me. Let me make you breakfast in the morning. Let me…damnit, let me be that person for you."

Clint had the blinding thought that Phil just wanted a pet to take care of, someone who had to rely on him for everything. He knew it wasn't true, though, because as much as Phil had helped him he had never hovered, or treated Clint as anything but a competent professional. Clint knew the warning signs of someone who had a fetish for helplessness, and Phil didn't fit any of them. For the first time since the accident, he felt like someone was talking to him and not his limitations. Phil wanted Clint, broken or whole, and Clint knew he was not going to walk away from that if he had the option to stay. Phil was already filling up parts of his world he thought were empty forever, and Clint had wanted the man too long to say no. He tipped his head down a little and placed a soft kiss on Phil's chest. Phil let out a sound that was not quite a groan, breathy and low. 

Clint quickly undid Phil's trousers but held back from yanking them off of his legs. He pulled them down, letting his knuckles drag over Phil's skin, making him squirm and cuss. He kissed his way back up one leg, then tugged Phil's underwear off, kissing his way back up the other leg. Near his hip, Phil smelled musky and sweaty in all the good ways, and Clint shifted over to run his nose and lips up Phil's cock. Phil shuddered but stayed still, his hands twisting the sheets. 

Giving a blowjob was something Clint prided himself on. He loved doing it, almost as much as he loved fucking, but it was something else he had avoided because it put him at a disadvantage. Sitting on your knees with a guy's cock in your mouth meant you couldn't see their reactions, or if they were getting ready to change the situation. His youth in the orphanage and in the circus meant that Clint's paranoia was ingrained, but losing his sight had made it worse. Phil, though, was easy to read and Clint trusted him. He took Phil's cock in his mouth and suckled it lightly, teasing out Phil's reaction. Phil whined, a thready sound that was punctuated by a repressed hip thrust. Smiling, Clint took him into his mouth. He was out of practice and could never really deep throat anyway, so he wrapped his hand around the base with a tight grip. Phil grunted and again held back from thrusting. Phil's dick was as sturdy and built as the rest of him, filling up Clint's mouth. By feel it did not seem too large, but it was thick, and the salty taste of pre-cum was rich and intoxicating. 

As he bobbed up and down, saliva running down over his fingers as he jacked what he couldn't fit into his mouth, he felt Phil bumping his other hand. Clint let go of Phil's hip and took the bottle. He lifted up. "Lube?"

"Yeah." Phil gasped as Clint twisted his hand over Phil's cock on the upstroke. "I have…condoms… _fuck!_ "

Clint snickered and let go, causing Phil to almost-whine again. He lubed up the fingers on one hand before bending over again to suck on Phil's cock. His slick fingers pushed back into the heat between Phil's ass cheeks, probing around until Clint could feel Phil's hole, which clinched up. Clint smiled as best he could, then set about taking Phil apart with his mouth and fingers. He had two fingers sliding in and out when Phil tugged on his hair hard. Clint pulled off, saliva running down his chin. "Ow?"

"Gonna come, damn it. Just, unh." Phil stopped and rolled his hips as Clint curled his fingers to press against his prostate. "Want you in. Side. Inside." He sounded desperate but determined, all but thrashing on the bed as Clint finger fucked him but trying to hold off from orgasm. "Ready! So ready. Oh, Clint. Please."

"Gonna let me get undressed?" Clint smirked.

Phil sucked in a deep breath and clutched at Clint's shirt. "No. Don't."

Clint flushed down to his core, imagining how it would look for him to be still in his jeans, fucking a fully naked Phil Coulson. How it would _feel_ to have such a strong man, ex-military and a Ranger no less, completely vulnerable under him. Clint squeezed Phil's thighs, then unzipped his jeans with shaking hands. He pushed them open just enough to drag his dick out, sucking in a deep breath when it was freed. 

"Here, here," Phil said, knocking his hand again, this time with a familiar square of foil. 

Clint took it and ripped it open, then carefully rolled the condom over himself. He was not sure what Phil was doing in the meantime, other than being really still. His dick was hanging out of his pants and he assumed he probably looked pretty stupid but his libido was in charge and he didn't care. He leaned over on all fours. "Front or back?"

"Face to face."

"Yeah, okay." Clint scooted forward, and felt Phil shift to put a pillow under his hips to raise them up. Clint tried to pay attention, stuck in the dark like he was -- he did not even know if Phil had turned on any lights when they entered the room -- because he wanted to feel every inch of Phil under him, but part of his mind kept drifting away. He felt that there was nothing he could ask that Phil would not at least try to do, and the feeling scared him. It was responsibility and love and everything Clint had thought was out of shot for him, after so long living on the fringes of his own life.

Phil's hands stopped him, holding his face. "Just to be clear, I want more than this. I want you to stay with me."

"Aw, Phil. Damn." Clint held himself, his hips thrusting forward even as his brain skittered over the possibilities. "I can try. If you want. I mean, I want to. I want to stay." Clint turned and kissed Phil's palm. "Now let me fuck you." He nipped at the skin of one of his fingers.

Phil chuckled, wanton and breathless. "Do it."

Clint pushed in, his dick jerking from the sensation. Phil was still tight but not impossible, yielding to the penetration. Phil's bare, strong legs wrapped around his waist as Clint pulled out and then thrust back in. Phil grunted, then sighed, as Clint bottomed out. He almost regretted keeping his clothes on, wanting to revel in the feel of flesh on flesh, but if Phil was serious — if he wanted a former carnie and disabled vet filling up his bed and his life — then Clint figured there would be time later for that. Or at least, he hoped so. He crouched down as he slammed in again, wrapping his arms completely around Phil and pulling him up into a kiss. Phil scrabbled at his back before both hands landed on Clint's still-covered ass. 

Their kisses turned frantic and sloppy as Clint started fucking in earnest, working his muscles in a familiar but long-unused way until he thought he couldn't breathe anymore. Phil was holding on, his hips jerking a little as he made small, precious sounds that Clint swallowed up with his mouth. Clint was gasping, the feel of Phil under him and around him and holding on to him charging his senses up until he felt his orgasm running like a live wire down his back. He tried to warn Phil, to say something, but he was gone. He let out a soft cry, his mouth falling open as he came pumping into Phil so hard the bed was bouncing on the floor. Phil cut off a shout and Clint felt him come, clutching around him, burying his face into Clint's chest. He was shuddering, his hips jerking. Clint pressed down his whole body, finishing out his own orgasm with a sigh. 

"Damn," Phil said after a few moments.

Clint laughed and slowly pushed himself back, pulling out of Phil with a groan. Phil's hands ghosted over him and then quickly pulled the condom off, snapping it with a knot and tossing it into the trash can somewhere to Clint's right. 

"Can I get undressed now?" Clint ran his hands up and down Phil's torso, still skin hungry and eager to cuddle, even if he wasn't going to admit that out loud just yet. 

Phil laughed back at him. "Please do. I'm getting a towel for clean up." Phil rolled off the bed as Clint made short work of his clothes. Phil came back and rubbed him down with a hot wet towel, slow and loving, giving Clint small kisses before pulling back the covers and pushing Clint under them. Clint heard and sensed the light next to the bed going off and then Phil was there, next to him, close but not invading his space. 

"Am I that scary?" Clint asked, twining their fingers together under the sheet.

"No, I'm just not that presumptuous. I, uh, like to be close after sex, but if you don't—" Phil stopped when Clint rolled into him, landing with a thud. 

"I won't tell anyone you like to cuddle if you don't tell anyone I like to cuddle."

"Your secret is safe with me," Phil said with a smile. Clint sighed and felt himself start to drift off, hazy in post-sex pleasure, Phil safe in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the story, except that there is also an epilogue I'm finishing up.


	11. Chapter 11

Phil wasn't too sure what made Clint so skittish, but he figured a good breakfast would make any man feel welcome so he was in the kitchen, baking bacon and cooking a simple frittata they could split when it was done. They had gone another round in the early morning hours, Clint shoving Phil down and taking him hard from behind, using him in the glorious way that Phil loved best. He figured he was on deck to top soon and he was going to enjoy the hell out of that, but he loved being under Clint, who was amazingly strong and self-confident and downright ruthless when he fucked. Phil had to admit he was moving around the kitchen a little bit more slowly than usual. 

"Hey." Clint was in the doorway to the kitchen, wearing jeans and his tee shirt and his sunglasses. He was still barefoot, though, so Phil mentally told himself to calm down. 

"You don't have to wear the glasses here." Phil checked the frittata. 

"I'm more comfortable with them on. In case I forget to keep my eyes closed."

"Your eyes don't bother me."

Phil gasped when Clint lunged across the room to grab him and kiss him. What should have been awkward and graceless was anything but with Clint Barton, who moved fast and with complete confidence in where he would land. Clint shoved into the kiss, his lips open enough to slip the tip of his tongue into Phil. He flicked his tongue along Phil's front teeth then bit down on his lower lip before moving on to kiss properly, holding Phil still with his hands while he took possession of his mouth. Phil's lips were still sore from all their earlier activities, though, so he pushed Clint away after a few moments. Clint's expression was just shy of blank, though, despite the passion he had poured into the kiss. It was hard to read Clint; he was honest but not expressive, always guarded in his interactions in a way that made Phil's heart lurch. He wondered how much of Clint's life was spent on the defense. 

But then Clint gave him a sheepish smile, stepping backwards. "I guess I'm in the kitchen?"

Phil snorted. "You know you're in the kitchen, I'm not buying the 'lost blind guy' act."

Clint grinned and reached out for a counter, feeling it as he walked back towards the doorway, stopping at the refrigerator. "Smells good."

"Breakfast in ten." Phil ignored Clint taking off his glasses and carefully placing them on top of the fridge, a peculiarly safe spot that Phil guessed was a tactical move -- because everything was tactical with Clint Barton, he was learning. It was weird, though, to see Clint "looking around" as if he could see, clearly a habit left over from a former lifetime of sight. Clint had done it the night before, after pushing Phil down, standing there and looking at Phil as if he could see him before climbing onto the bed. But this time Clint's eyes were open and very obviously sightless. Phil wondered idly what could have caused such damage without requiring their removal, or leaving scars on his face. There were small scars pretty much all over his body, thin white silvery things that Phil knew damn good and well were from shrapnel. He decided never to ask. 

Clint leaned against the door. "So you want to do this officially? Or are we off the books?"

"My life is spent on the books. This isn't the military, there are no regulations we're breaking here, and I'm not one to go skulking around, keeping my boyfriend a secret." Phil platted the frittata to let it rest before cutting and serving it. He kept talking while he pulled down plates and silverware. "But you're the one going on the road with the show. If you don't want the responsibility of a long distance relationship, I'd rather you tell me that now, before I get invested."

"That so?"

"Yes. I'm the monogamous type, and I'm pretty possessive."

"So am I."

"Ball's in your court then." Phil took the bacon out of the oven and drained it on paper towels. "Last night you said you wanted to try, and I'm hoping to God you haven't changed your mind, but now is the time to back out if you don't want what I'm offering." Phil stomach clinched up but he tried to keep his voice flat and level. 

Clint was quiet as they settled at the dining table and ate. Every second was jarring as Phil waited for his response while acting as if he was cool with whatever Clint decided. 

"You know how much Hill is looking forward to our national tour." Clint said, using his fingers to push a bit of the frittata onto his fork. Phil made a mental note to go with something more along the lines of finger food, like sandwiches, next time. If he was getting a next time. 

"I think she enjoyed her last root canal more."

"Right. So why is Fury sending her out on the road, instead of you?"

Phil tilted his head. It had simply never crossed his mind to ask to be the road manager for the tour, assuming from the start that Hill would be Fury's best choice. 

"You're a better choice to manage the team." Clint put down the fork and looked towards Phil. "Everyone likes you, everyone trusts you, and you can do the job blindfolded. And if you came with us, we'd bunk together. Every night." He smirked.

Phil fought down the flush of heat the words stirred in him and forced himself to think about the suggestion. "Fury will fight the idea, I'm his one good eye. But you're right, I'm the better choice for it."

Clint blinked a couple of times. "Am I looking at you?"

"Yes."

"I thought so." He frowned. "You don't care."

"No. I told you your eyes don't bother me. And when you chose to be expressive, you are pretty easy to read."

Clint was quiet again for a while, picking up his fork again. His sense of place was preternatural, he knew exactly where the fork was and his movements were so sure and certain that if he had been wearing his glasses, it would have been easy to assume that he could actually see. Phil dragged his eyes off of his lover to focus on his own plate again. 

Clint cleared his throat. "It could be a test run for the first couple of months. You could always switch out with Hill when you get tired of taking care of the useless blind guy." Clint smiled, as if making a light joke. 

Phil breathed in carefully through his nose, trying to keep his temper down. "I'll talk to Hill about it later tonight. It's a better idea than trying to drag her across the country, and if I can spend that time with you then it's the job for me."

Clint shook his head. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Phil went back to eating. The silence was still a little tense, but Phil at least felt better about the direction they were headed so let Clint mull things over without interference.

Clint helped with clean up, then stood in the kitchen looking confused while Phil put away the dishes. "You driving me home?"

"Sure, if you want."

"Just, usually, I'm not stuck the next day trying to score a ride." He shifted from foot to foot. 

Phil walked up and pushed Clint up against the counter, bracing his arms on either side, fencing him in. "I believe we just agreed to live together for the next six months while the show tours. I've made it pretty clear that I'm falling in love with you. You've spent a lot of time talking around the issue, but it was your idea for me to switch out with Hill so we could bunk on the road." He leaned in and kissed Clint, dragging his lips over Clint's mouth and slowly, slowly pressing up close until their bodies were flush. When he pulled back, Clint's arms snapped up and snared Phil in a tight embrace. Phil shuddered into it. 

"I don't get you at all," Clint whispered, nuzzling at Phil's ear. 

"You've got me, one way or the other." Phil kissed his neck, tender and sweet. 

"And you win the corny line contest," Clint snorted. 

"I was trying to be romantic," Phil sighed, stepping away. 

Clint laughed. "Yeah, not something you have to worry about." He reached out and put his palm on Phil's chest, holding it there, seeming to dial all of his attention in on feeling Phil breathe. "You know I'm a fuck up, right?"

"How can someone with perfect aim be a fuck up?" Phil stood still, letting Clint feel him up. It was as if Clint was taking inventory, which was not too sexy, but appeared important. 

"Dunno." Clint sighed, moving his hand up Phil's neck to his jaw. 

"Maybe you haven't had the right thing to aim at."

Clint snorted, but then stopped and nodded. "Maybe so. The accident took away the only thing that made me important, you know? I just became a crippled vet living on disability. Now I have the show, I can do that, I can perform." He stopped again. "Is that what you like? The way I do it?"

Phil placed his own hand on Clint's chest. "That's a bonus, but what I like is you. Just you, as you are, a smart ass trouble maker."

"Uh, most people kind of think the other way about that part." Clint smirked again, his posture relaxing. 

"I like a challenge."

"Oh." Clint's face fell. "So that's it? I'm difficult and blind, you want to tame that or something?"

"For fuck's sake." Phil rubbed. "I guess I'm glad we're talking about this but damn it, I'm not sure how I can get through to you that I'm falling in love with you. With Clint Barton, and I don't care about the fact that you're ex-military or blind or a stripper or a pain in the ass. Fuck." Phil stepped and turned to lean against the counter next to Clint. Their shoulders rubbed, and Clint did not pull back, so Phil considered it a win. 

"I might have low self-esteem issues," Clint offered, his voice controlled and raw. 

"You think?"

Clint laughed. "You're calling _me_ the smart ass?"

Phil risked linking their fingers together. "I'm calling you my boyfriend, or my partner, or whatever you like. If you'll stop second-guessing everything and let me do this."

Clint chewed on his bottom lip, closing his fingers around Phil's. "Partner. I like that. Means a lot of things."

"As long as all of those things are me, I'm okay with that."

Clint was silent for a while before he nodded and rolled towards Phil, pushing up against him and grabbing his waist with his strong hands. "So how long we have until we're due at the club?"

Phil kissed him, letting Clint control the kiss but putting everything he had into it showing him that Phil meant everything he did with his mouth, words and actions both. "Long enough."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's the end! Thanks everyone for your kind words and encouragement and patience. RL has been kind of wonky and so writing became very stressful for me. I appreciate everyone hanging in for the end! ♥ Hope you liked it. :)


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